


Oozing Wounds

by hellsinki



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, Emotional Hurt, M/M, poetic prose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellsinki/pseuds/hellsinki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of oneshots on ME; will be mostly slash pairing, and definitely male Shepard-centric. The mood is generally angsty and depressing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Doesn't Rain on the Citadel

**Author's Note:**

> Kaidan, after accepting Udina's offer to become a Spectre, refuses to join Shepard on the Normandy. Shepard tries to make some time to see him, but it's never going to be like the old days again.

It doesn't rain on the Citadel. Not naturally anyway. There is a fixed pattern for the artificially-induced rain here. Every Saturday in the last two weeks of each month. Shepard hates that. He just wants to go outside once, not knowing if it is going to rain or not, but deciding not to take his umbrella anyway. And then it will rain and Shepard will curse under his breath, wishing he had the umbrella with him after all.

His hair doesn't get plastered to his forehead, the way it did back on Earth so many years ago, when his hair was longer and had this sort of natural style to it that Kaidan used to be so infatuated with ('John, don't you ever cut that hair! It's the only part of you I can safely call cute and not get both of us terribly embarrassed.'), and with a stubbornness that comes with his rank, Shepard refuses to miss the wet, almost irritating feel of his hair sticking to his forehead, Kaidan's playful hand as it brushes his hair aside and his warm tongue as it licks the raindrops on his face away. 

One thing is the same though: the rain worming its way into his collar, sliding languidly all the way in and damping his t-shirt beneath his coat. By the time he would get to Kaidan's place he was soaking wet. Kaidan would chastise him for being so reckless about his health ('Goddamnit, Shepard, don't you check the weather forecast before you leave your house?' - Shepard never did. He wanted to be surprised when it rained. He wanted to be annoyed and curse under his breath. He wanted to get soaked so that Kaidan would look at him like that, and run his hands through his dripping strands of hair, asking him to take off his damp clothes and wear something of his own instead. Shepard loved the naturalness of it all. Shepard loved Kaidan. Kaidan loved him.) 

And it was all so natural. And like with anything natural, it hits you when you are least expecting. When they fell apart, as inevitable as it was natural, Shepard was not expecting it. He was unprepared, and this time when he got soaked through, there was no Kaidan around to scold him for taking poor care of himself and then to offer him his own clothes. 

It doesn't rain on the Citadel. Not naturally anyway. Kaidan visits him on the Citadel on a fixed pattern. Every Saturday in the last two weeks of each month. Shepard hates that. He just wants to walk around the Citadel and suddenly run into Kaidan like the old days. 'You haven't changed one bit, Shepard.', he would say, and then run his hand through his soaking hair. 'You let your hair grow back, too.' He would be pleasantly surprised about that. 'Just like the old times, huh?', Shepard would say. 'Just like the old times.', Kaidan would agree. But this is not here nor there, and Shepard will refuse to miss the unpatterned rain on Earth, his unpatterned love for Kaidan, Kaidan's unpatterned kisses along his neck and down his chest. He can't afford getting distracted like that, not when the whole galaxy is depending on him. At times like these, love is disposable; it's people's lives that is not. And as Shepard slowly makes his way through strangers' bodies pressing against him from all directions, looking at the familiar figure of Kaidan sitting on a chair at Apollo's cafe, staring absent-mindedly into his drink, and as the raindrops slide into his collar and seep through his Alliance uniform, it keeps not raining on the Citadel.


	2. An End Once and for All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard doesn't get an end of his own; legends never do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shepard had rejected Kaidan because heroes are not meant to have anything for themselves. Everything and everybody else come first, and what 'he' wants does not matter. He's more an icon than an actual man, and symbols do not need love to get the job done. And Shepard does get the job done, one way or another. It just might have not been easy sometimes.

And then there comes a time when no matter how far you reach out, your hand keeps slipping through, never making contact with anything solid to grasp, to hold onto, to pull yourself out of this black hole before it swallows you whole. When your biotic charge fails- pathetic sparks of silvery blue that whimper like a dying varren until they turn into air dust- for there is no mass effect field around you anymore to manipulate. Just emptiness, dark, everlasting and self-consuming. It claws its way into your chest, sips swiftly through your hardest armor and tears your cybernetic tissues apart. And it happens so fast that even your armor readings fail to warn you about the malfunction in time. You're dead before you know it, and you can only hope that this time you just stay dead. No Lazarus project, no Cerberus bullshit, no strings attached. Just floating in space for as long as time goes on, and if he were to be pulled down by gravity, enter the atmosphere and get blown up, let his pieces scatter all over the planet, like seeds of the most hideous flower that never withers, or like golden flecks of a genophage cure raining over barren lands, impregnating them with hope as they disappear into the soil and rocks and water, never to resurface, never to come back again.

Shepard never thought he would ever experience this feeling, never thought this feeling even existed to be experienced, but he missed being dead. He didn't get enough time to adjust after he'd returned from the land of the dead, where he had been led all his life to believe was a land of no return; the fight with the Collectors had kept his mind preoccupied and  between salvaging past relationships, recruiting new squad mates and doing various missions to ensure their loyalty, he could hardly find some alone time with his thoughts. And it was a good thing, at the time. It helped him focus on what had to be done, keep himself in the vision, and push through until he got to the last square. But then came his time under Alliance surveillance. Being alone with thoughts that kept pushing against the barriers he had worked so hard to set up, it had been exhausting. And once his barriers were down, it  would only take one shot to blow him up.

He endured, of course. That was what he did best. He had survived far more terrible traumas than this. The memory of Mindoir was still fresh in his mind, as if it hadn't been 20 something years ago, as if his life hadn't been altered drastically after that incident, as if he hadn't died. But he had learned to put his problems at the furthest recesses of his mind; to forget about his own pains because the mission always came first. It was the first thing they taught you in a regular N1 program. When fatally injured but not in a position to retreat or get healed, try to separate your mind from your pain, focus solely on the mission, and get the job done before you bleed to death. They'll give you an award afterward if you're lucky, or a proper funeral if you're not. What matters is that pain is not just weakness; it's an adversary; kill it before it kills you. If you succumb to it, then you'll become expendable. And Shepard simply could not be expendable.

The galaxy didn't want his pain or anything else that made him human; they wanted a hero, godlike, invincible and bulletproof. He understood, of course. Every once in a while, a hero needed to rise among devastated, yet hopeful people, to keep them together, to bear their burden so that life could go on, like a river that meandered its way under a bulky bridge. Shepard never would have thought he'd be that hero, but here he was, whether he liked or not, because someone else might have gotten it wrong[1]. _You never asked for it, but if you refuse, people will die_ _ **[2]**_. Someone else might have not been enough, and Shepard had no illusion about his own capabilities. A hero had to be a survival above everything else, because a hero dying at the wrong time wasn't even worth a plaque on a memorial wall, a reminiscent of how bad things had gone and how worse they were going to get. No one wanted a dead hero right now, and Shepard knew all too well that if it hadn't been for Cerberus bringing him back, everything he had done so far would have been swept under the carpet, forgotten as if he had never existed, and all his efforts and sacrifices would have meant nothing. And if he were to die before completing his mission now...

It wasn't that he was invincible. Far from it; he always bore the brunt of every mission; he was the first to run into a room, the one constantly out of cover, running from one side of the battlefield to another, making sure everybody else was alright, and still in the heat of it all at the end of the mission, firing shot after shot as he bought some time for his squad mates to make it to the shuttle. He was Dr. Chakwas' most frequented patient, with scars that never truly got enough time to heal. No, it wasn't that he was invincible; it was just that he would die only when his death would make the greatest difference, when it would matter the most, and in this case, only when he had made sure the Reapers were no longer a threat to the galaxy. Only then would he allow himself the luxury of death, only then would he have lived up to his title, and only then would all the sacrifices have been worthwhile.

Being a hero made sure you had many people who knew you, who loved you, worshipped you, would  even die for you, if you let it happen. It also meant that you had to confine your own wishes and dreams to a solitary cell so that you could allow for others' wishes and dreams to have a chance to get fulfilled. It was a paradoxical life Shepard was living, full and empty at the same time;  but not for long, though. He could feel it; the life slipping away from him, getting further away with every step that he took forward and away from it. Maybe it wasn't that his life was slipping away from him, but rather _he_ was walking away from it. He was reaching out into the emptiness not for his life, but for that one dream that never actually got to become a part of his life.

_"Ever had that one thing you'd always wanted to do before you died, Shepard?"_

_"No, too busy trying  to live. What about you, Garrus?_ _**[3]** _ _"_

It had always been too easy to ignore that one thing that mattered to him the most, to squash the urgency of having it fulfilled under everything the galaxy kept throwing at him to fix; to look at it but not to see it; to touch it but not to feel it; to have it but not to own it. Shepard had always been too busy trying to live to remember what it was he had always wanted before he died; but now that he was marching towards his death, with the whole galaxy as nothing but a mere blob of white noise at the back of his mind, he remembered, and it throbbed inside his chest with more intensity than his bullet wounds, and splashed his conscious with more blood than what he had already lost. If he could have had just this one moment, just a little something of his own, for himself, a decision that wouldn't have affected the whole galaxy, a little touch that could have burned only through his own armor and no one else's, a little smile that could have lightened up his own world only and nowhere else. Would it have been too much to ask for words that were meant only for him to hear, a body only for him to hold? Would it have been too much to want something, _someone_ , for himself, would  that be too selfish, un-heroic, undeserved? Would it have been too much to ask to be normal, a mere mortal human with simple desires, when the whole galaxy wanted to see him as anything but?

But right now no one was watching him; no one was smelling the metallic odor of his blood, no one was witnessing his broken body limping forward, sweat and blood and burned skin and thermal clips, a hole in his chest wider than his hand could ever cover up, and his shield depleted and his armor utterly useless now. What were a man to do at the time of his death but to remember? The things he'd done, but mostly those he hadn't and would never do. A life of great deeds, heroic deeds, but also of regrets and failures, too. A life of holes that were filled with mismatched moments, and then there were holes that had never been filled, gnawing like yellowed, infectious wounds. Would death bring him closure when death was just a continuation of his life without him? But was he even looking for a closure of his own when he had never asked or strived for anything for himself? This was the end once and for all, but it wasn't _his_ end. It was the end of the cycle for the Reapers; it was the end of war and death and suffering for the galaxy. His end was not in his death or even in the memories he would leave behind. He just didn't have one; legends never did.

But these weren't his dying thoughts. He had still one thing left to do and he needed something, a desire, a dream, to keep his hand steady on the gun and his legs on the ground. He had already made up his mind the moment the Child told him how to destroy the Reapers. Control or synthesis were not an option. Now was not the time for split second decisions, because they usually tended to end badly. Destroying the Reapers was what he had wanted to do from the start and he would do it, despite the consequences, the sacrifices. Some were necessary, like his life; some were unavoidable, like EDI's and the geth's. Somehow the thought of his own death made it easier to destroy all synthetics, and he knew that someday they would be recreated, for better or worse. But _he_ would die now, never to be created again, blood dripping on the floor to the rhythm of his thumping heart as he made his way toward the tube. With the Reapers gone, the galaxy would have no more use for him, and he'd welcome death like his much overdue sanity check. Shot after shot was emptied into the tube and as the explosion engulfed his body with a blanket of fire, Shepard's head was filled with one single image of his dream that he never allowed to come true: to have someone to turn to when things looked grim, someone to live for, maybe love...someone to die for.

_"Someone?"_

You, Kaidan[4].

You.

 

 

 

* * *

 

[1] Mordin's famous words

[2] Primarch Victus' words to Shepard in ME3

[3] The conversation between Garrus and Shepard in Presidium

[4] A conversation between Kaidan and Shepard at Apollo's cafe, during their first 'date'


	3. Sublime Suffering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaidan reflects on Shepard, the saviour of the galaxy, the sublime sufferer, and goes through the last moments they share together before the battle on Earth. 
> 
> Warning: This is a very emotional piece, maybe too much at times, but I just let my emotions take me where they wanted to.

Shepard is beautiful; Kaidan has no doubt or reservation about this assessment; yet beautiful not just in a physical sense- though even to someone with as much integrity and self-restraint as Kaidan, it is apparent that those fierce blue eyes, sculpted cheekbones and full mouth give Shepard's face a sophisticated, aristocratic attractiveness- but when Kaidan thinks of Shepard as beautiful he is thinking of his psychology, of that vast depth of his character that is made of trillions of dots all interconnected and intersected in so many different ways that is nigh impossible to get a hold of one dot and try to trace it all the way to its destination among the galactic network of all those psychological wires.

Shepard is beautiful because he suffers, and he suffers oh so beautifully, so secretly and sublime, that it tears Kaidan apart just watching him as he stuffs his pain under the thick layer of his skin and lets it feed on his vitality as he forces his steps through sheer adrenaline and his spirit through something far more comprehensive than any system of ideology Kaidan, with all his background learnings, can grasp.

Shepard is complex like that; most of his decisions do not register as sane or practical with many who have not known him as long as Kaidan has, but even Kaidan at times feels drained contemplating the reasons and motivations behind Shepard's actions. Sometimes, he even feels the terrible tangs of doubt as he assesses and reassesses the man with the whole galaxy riding on his shoulders (the memory of what happened on Horizon not a very long time ago still inflicts his conscience with regret, and the fear that maybe he’s actually getting it all wrong sometimes puts a strain on his developing blind faith in Shepard.), but what he comes to at the end is that if you choose to withhold your faith in him, the one that ends up with the greater loss is not going to be Shepard.

As it was, working for ( _with_ , as Shepard kept insisting on, as if a change of proposition in a dreadfully long-winded sentence of decades of corruption was capable of making all the difference in the world) Cerberus was only one incomprehensible chapter in Shepard’s outlandish lifestyle. Shepard is the man that opens the tank of a krogan, makes alliance with a geth, and lets a rachni queen live. Shepard demands your trust and takes it to the furthest reaches of the galaxy, stretches it to its fullest limits, to its breaking point, and then asks you if you trust him. You do, or at least you know you should; Kaidan knows this better than anyone; he had, after all, denied Shepard the trust he demanded from him, but even as he had been doing so, Kaidan was conflicted. He knew there was something terribly wrong with turning your back on Shepard, a kind of primal instinct that went off inside his head like a warning alarm ( _What the fuck are you doing, Kaidan? Stop it!_ ) as he spat those hateful words at the man he had spent two long years mourning. The evidence had been there, of Shepard’s betrayal not only to the Alliance but on some flimsy level to Kaidan as well, but so had been the signs, the hints, that same primal instinct that whispered into Kaidan’s ears to just trust him, despite everything, despite the evidence, despite all those glowing scars on that once comforting face, despite the Cerberus logo on his companions’ armors. He hadn’t listened to those whispers because he had always prided himself for his invincible integrity and keeping a rational head on his shoulders at times of crisis. And of course, there had been the shock, too; the anger and the bitterness that soon followed and colored his judgment. Maybe Kaidan had never been as rational as he thought to be; maybe Shepard had been right and that his emotions had really gotten in the way of his better judgment. After all, Joker, Chakwas, Garrus and Tali had no difficulty in accepting the man with all his Cerberus attachments. But Kaidan’s greatest mistake was that his rationality had failed when all he had really needed to have at the time was _faith_ and _respect_.

He has them now, maybe not soon enough but at least not too late either. He still doesn’t get the reasons behind some of Shepard’s most absurd decisions, but he understands enough not to turn his back on Shepard when the man needs him the most. On the battlefield, it comes to him like second nature; protect Shepard at all costs; that’s what a good Sentinel does for the leader of his team, after all. In Shepard’s cabin, however, it becomes quite another story. On the white-covered bed that feels harder than it looks, the Alliance rules stop to matter as they are broken one by one with every little kiss and lustful touch. There, Shepard ceases being the hero of the galaxy, and the blue of his eyes starts to look more vivid, his gaze softens to an astonishing degree and the warmth of his naked body makes him more human, more physically there, more alive. Kaidan knows, without a doubt, that he loves the man he holds in his arms. That he has the utmost faith and respect for him. He knows, too, that their time is short. Sometimes, the thought makes him restless, resentful, weary. Sometimes, it makes him desperate, needy, anxious. It shows in the way they make love; it resonates powerfully in the way they move, they touch, they talk. Shepard becomes especially beautiful in that moment when he leans toward Kaidan, broad shoulders stooping slightly, one hand on the right side of his cheek, breaths warm and wet against his skin, and looks at him with eyes emptied out by nightmares and suffering and terror. He mouths his name on his cheek, but hesitates to take his lips, labored breathing barely touches the soft, pink skin there. He talks of hope, but smells of despair. He stands upright, but bleeds all over the bed sheets. He smiles at him, but cries inside. And at that moment, his beauty makes Kaidan breathless with admiration and awe. Here’s the man made of pure, perfect suffering. Here’s the man of oozing wounds and angry bruises and broken bones. Here’s the man who died once and came back only to die once more, this time with more of that pain that is now dripping from his eyes like tears of blood. And this man, Shepard, is melting into his arms, running all over his hands like thick liquid, stains of blood that will never come off his skin again, and Kaidan holds on, for as long as he can.

Shepard promises to come back, but it still feels like it’s their last time. Kaidan feels it in their kiss and Shepard suddenly stops holding his pieces together and just lets go and comes unhinged. Not completely, not even remotely obvious, but the admission reflects in his eyes that this is in fact their last goodbye. The savior of the galaxy, but Kaidan rather likes to think of him as the man of sublime suffering. It suits his blue, long-lashed eyes better, and the faint smile on his dry lips. If he could hold onto this moment for eternity, he would. If he could take Shepard away from the ruins of London and put him inside a vial and keep it around his neck, he would. But there are so many things Kaidan is incapable of doing, and he just lets Shepard go. Maybe he comes back, like the last time, from dead. But the string of hope is just too strained, and Kaidan does not trust it to hold for much long.

The hand on his cheek, firm and warm and loving, blue eyes alight under the blazing white light from the projectors, and a thousand words trapped inside of them both.

“No matter what happens…know that I love you. Always.”

And Kaidan knows the score, knows when it makes a difference to hold on and when it does not, yet he reaches out even though his hand is too far away to reach Shepard’s, and lets all his fears and pain show on his face. See that I suffer for you, Shepard. See that I’m nothing without you. This is the way I love you, always, no matter what happens, and even if I said it wrong or not clearly enough, or not enough times, I have tasted your pain in my mouth and felt the weight of your suffering on my heart, and we both know it hurts more to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all, but we both have been born out of pain, and when you make it so beautiful to suffer for love, it will be all worth it in the end, and our love, in spite of all the suffering, will go on. 


End file.
